Destinations
by ACtravels
Summary: Sherlock Holmes is dead, so why has his DNA showed up at the scene of a nasty double murder? Jim Moriarty had never intended for Sherlock to die. No, he had just intended for Sherlock to get bored. Post-Reichenbach.
1. Being Extraordinary

He needed to know where the line between extraordinary and ordinary sat; he needed to know when someone crossed that line, and Sherlock? Sherlock had always been his favourite toy. He'd always been so delightfully interesting: predictable, yes, but magnificent and brilliant too. He'd like to test him. He needed to know: _when does madness start and sanity end? _He needed to grasp the definition and _understand_.

The world very rarely offered something to keep his mind occupied, and Sherlock wasn't the only one who enjoyed little experiments. But this, no, this would be interesting and Jim Moriarty could almost taste the satisfaction of knowing. _And normally the boredom pressed in on him until he thought it might suffocate him, until he thought his chest would explode with this frustration and need to find something more than the mundane. _But, this time...

The back of his head was warm and wet with blood (not his blood, of course), but Jim Moriarty knew enough about London to know where to eat breakfast without being stared at. He didn't want to leave: as devoid of sentiment as he was, there was something in the air of London which made everything a little bit better – the rush of it, the hurry, the way it sprawled out from the centre and always seemed to be full and busy. London was the only place where his searching didn't seem pointless. _He wouldn't leave. _

The breakfast was shit, but he was starving so he ate in anyway. It had been while since he had eaten food, and now that the adrenaline was half gone he needed something to fill him. He was starving, in fact, thirsty for it _to begin_.

It was never about the fall, but the permanent destination.

It would have been almost a disappointment to Jim Moriarty if Sherlock_ had_ died, because Sherlock had been the most potent thing to stave away the boredom he'd ever found – and it wasn't like he hadn't been looking: always, he needed _something_. He'd spent most of his life manically searching for something to grip hold of through the inane and the mundane, and after sifting through mountains of the_ normal_ and the _ordinary_ he'd managed to find an occupation which could fill up those lonely corners of his mind where everything happened – the problem solving. The game. Life and death, risk and finally, god,_ finally_ using his brain.

And if Sherlock thought that the fall reached its completion when he'd hit the ground then he was about to be solely disappointed, something which Jim Moriarty very much wished he could see.

It was never about death; there was nothing much to be feared from death, but life for people as _extraordinary_ as people like them was full of endless hours.

The side of the angels. Well, angels fell and they didn't die. Death was easy, stagnant, flat (not that Jim Moriarty knew anything about dying, nor was he going to find out anything about dying). Angles were immortal. They lived on in hell.

And so, Moriarty had stripped away everything good about Sherlock's life – burnt it away. Without his little pet, without his games, without his dancing around mundane crimes Sherlock _was_ him. The boredom. The staying.

No, it wasn't the end. The show was only just beginning.

* * *

_I don't think I've ever written such a short prologue to anything in my life. Never mind, eh?_


	2. Baker Street

John hadn't returned to Baker Street for a long time. His key still fit in the lock, Mrs Hudson had still been dusting _(dust lines, eloquent, surveillance web; Sherlock)_ and the flat was still empty. John had long since decided that Mycroft must be paying the rent – maybe his own form of grief – because he was sure that otherwise Mrs Hudson would have been forced to sell it. The flat always had a strange oldness about it (and John had always blamed Sherlock's mass of stuff for that, he could hardly call his goddamn skull in keeping with modern living) and with vast expanse of time where no one had lived there it had the strange scent of emptiness that he associated with derelict buildings (_abductions, Irene Adler, crime scenes; Sherlock)_.

Still, Sherlock felt so tangible in the space they'd inhabited for such a long period of time it was hard not to believe that he was about to walk in with a harpoon and half a dead pig spattered across his front, or to turn up with another bag of body parts f to keep in the freezer, or anything, really, because John had long since given up predicting what Sherlock would be doing next.

He'd have thought that living with someone so extraordinary, larger than life, would have pushed him out slightly. He'd have thought that someone like him would have disappeared behind someone who could walk into a room and notice everything and anything within seconds, to understand someone's entire life story before they'd mentioned their name and to be the most annoying individual you could ever meet. It hadn't been like that. Instead, John had become more himself the longer he'd spent fetching Sherlock's pens and being subjected to conversations in Baker Street when he was miles away. _Where would I be without my blogger?_

It felt much too close when he was sat in his old flat, in his old chair, envisioning Sherlock playing the damn violin in the middle of the night and trying to work out what that meant – a good sign? A bad sign? Just Sherlock, being Sherlock?

But that was over.

He hadn't accepted it, so much, as been forced to move on. Gotten another job, a cheaper apartment, a mundane, dull life. It wasn't like before, where there'd been the thrill of the chase and always something happening, but it wasn't terrible either – he missed it, of course he did, but he hadn't fallen apart. Not really. He'd soldiered on, moved on, just kept living.

And then it had happened.

And now he was here, feeling the essence of Sherlock seeping through his skin with all that it brought with it. The good days, the danger days, the days when John had nearly hit Sherlock over the head with his _bloody_ violin. Sitting hunched over a laptop and being in the middle of writing a blog entry when Sherlock would take the laptop out of his hands and begin doing something else entirely, or would continue the usual tirade about the awful puns in his titles, or the complaints about _the boredom_.

John wondered if he'd ever really been mad at Sherlock.

Maybe when he watched him fall. Just for a second, before reality hit home.

John took another a deep breath and pulled his mobile out of his jacket pocket. A different mobile, without engraving and without the scuff marks which had marked his sister out as a drunk. It had been harrowing to get rid of it but it hadn't really worked properly since Sherlock had submerged it in some sort of chemical to see what would happen. He still had it somewhere. Shoved away in a draw with his gun and a hundred newspaper clippings.

The number was on his recently used contacts lists. _Gregory Lestrade. _His hands shook slightly (_Mycroft inspecting his hand shaking hand, his therapist, psychosomatic limp; Sherlock_). He called the number anyway, pressing the cool screen of the phone against his face.

The file Lestrade had given him was still tucked under his arm. He didn't want to look at it, not just yet. It would be too tempting to begin to believe in the impossible, to become carried away with what the file could _mean_ rather than what it _meant_. He'd watched Sherlock fall (he couldn't bring himself to think _jump_), damnit. Felt his pulse stop. Seen him die.

"Before," John muttered into the phone, "Sher..." his mouth contorted around the word, not forming it properly out loud, "Sherlock," he said again, closing his eyes for a second, "there was that case, where the man used a pint of blood to fake his own disappearance, he... he tested it, he could tell that it wasn't from a wound...It'll prove that it was just planted there."

John barely heard Lestrade's answer, because his blood seemed to have filled with an icy sense of relief. There was proof. There would be no need to reopen the investigation, because Sherlock Holmes was dead.

So it wasn't possible that a tiny trace of his blood could have been found at the scene of a brutal double murder.

___(When you eliminate the impossible__**, **____then whatever __is ____left__**, **__no matter how improbable,____must be the truth)._

* * *

___*Insert time Jump here* Having been a HP fanfiction writer on HPFF for five years this is all sorts of new and scary, not least because my usual 5k chapters now seemed to have dropped below a thousand words (who knew?) but there we go. Hope you're enjoying it and stuffs, like. The last line isn't mine - it's Conan Doyle's line. Nor is any of this mine, would be lovely?_


	3. Scotland Yard

John hadn't expected the call from Greg Lestrade. After the week he spent sleeping on Greg's sofa immediately after the events he still had trouble talking about, he'd forced himself to find another flat and had since began distancing himself to everything that had gone before.

They'd met for a pint, once or twice, but it was difficult to breach the gap that separated them – that Lestrade believed, at least to some extent, that Sherlock Holmes had been a fraud.

He'd taken a cab to Scotland Yard, even though he generally tried to avoid the things if he could, and found it strange to be walking the familiar steps. He sucked in a deep breath, feeling as though everyone was sneaking extra looks in his direction – although he suspected that was more down to paranoia than anything else, because he doubted there was anything more than something oddly familiar about him.

"John," Greg had said, "sorry to call you in like this."

Anderson and Donovan, too. He couldn't even bring himself to blame them.

"What's this about?"

Lestrade nodded towards the office.

"You read about the Bruce murders?" Lestrade asked, pulling a file out of a desk and watching him carefully. The Bruce murders had been the subject of much conversation over the past couple of days, not because anyone was particularly surprised they brothers had been killed – from what everyone had been telling him, they were nasty pieces of work who'd had it coming – but more because of how vicious the killing had been. One stabbed repeatedly, the other shot multiple times in the head.

John nodded.

"Well," Lestrade said carefully, "there were three different blood samples found at the scene."

"The brothers, presumably."

"Yes, and this is where it gets strange, John. We ran it through the records and," Greg Lestrade paused, "an exact match; Sherlock."

But that's impossible.

_(The records are only as good as the record keeper, Irene Adler; Sherlock)._

John's lips formed '_what?_' but his voice didn't cooperate.

"We're looking at two options here," Lestrade continued, "either someone is trying to frame Sherlock, or... or he's not really dead."

John felt the memory rise up like a knife in his throat: the phone pressed to his cheek, Sherlock's voice, the silence, watching him fall and _running towards him. _Pushing past, reaching out, feeling his pulse as it stopped. The blood. His cool, dead, eyes. _The funeral, the grave, the flat, the fall, the newspaper articles._

"He'd dead."

"But why would someone try to frame a dead man?"

John wanted to say the name that was throbbing through his head _(Moriarty, Moriarty, Moirarty),_ but on the part public opinion was sure – Moriarty had never existed. And John had never opened his mouth to defend his existence, because he couldn't stand the thought of the mixed sympathy in people's eyes, the pity. _Poor John Watson, taken in so utterly by one Sherlock Holmes._

He shook his head, but Lestrade seemed to understand.

"We're looking into it," he told him, "we're reopening the case."

Lestrade hadn't been on the case surrounding his death (not that they'd been much of a case, more of just a cleanup) due to the temporary suspension but he'd assured John that it had been fairly simple. He'd been chucked off the kidnap case too, and it was instead simply assumed that the blame lied with Sherlock. Apparently, suicide was proof.

"What case?" John asked, the names of his blogs twisting round in his head slightly. He hadn't thought about that for awhile. "It's... it'll be nothing."

He needed it to be nothing. He couldn't afford to have Sherlock push his way back into his life from beyond the grave, for Moriarty to be pushed back into his mind and into the papers again. He didn't think he would be able to survive it again, not when Sherlock would still be dead and he'd still be the last man standing.

"We've got to entertain the possibility that we all might have been taken in again, John. We have to consider the possibility that Sherlock might not be dead."

There was a lot John wanted to say: like, _you didn't see him fall; _like, _I begged him to be alive and he wasn't; _and, _I don't want to know anymore. _He didn't say anything. All that time spent with Sherlock had given him the patience not to lash out and to keep his mouth shut (to an extent, they still argued plenty).

"Surely," John finally began, "that's not a usual jump."

"There is no usual in this case."

And so, John had left Scotland Yard feeling disorientated and oddly reminiscent, taken a cab to Baker street and had sat down in his old chair not knowing what to think or believed. He'd called Lestrade about the blood, feeling strangely like Sherlock was still leaving him clues in the right direction after all this time, and now he sat with his finger digging into the edge of the file about the Bruce murders.

John pressed his fingers against his temple and tried to get his head straight. His head was full of Irene Adler reappearing, of dying, of coming back to life and dying all over again. Full of Sherlock, the fall, the running, the panic that he'd began to feel well up in his chest as he realised _there was nothing left to do. _The dizzy feeling he associated more with that utter helplessness than crashing to the ground because of that bike. The way his chest constricted with anger when he thought about Jim Moriarty constructing a lie and forcing him to play along. The overwhelming feeling of loss that absorbed him whenever he thought too much about everything he'd had, for a glorious piece of time with the most irritating and wonderful person than John had ever met.

He sank down in his seat slightly and half smiled: it seemed almost fitting that even when dead Sherlock was capable of being monstrously annoying.

* * *

_So, I'm completed besotted with this now. Not that I think it's in any way decent, I'm just loving every second of writing it. And because the chapters are so tiny compared to my HPFF stuff (honestly, thousand word chapters? How novel) that I'll probably be able to keep up this crazy-rate of updating. So, anyway, if anyone is actually reading this I hope you're enjoying it and what not. Sherlock's in the next chapter :)_


	4. The Grave Yard

The invite to his funeral turned up on crisp white paper. Embossed. The sort usually used for wedding invitations. The weight felt similar to the handmade paper from the craft shop less than three miles from Baker Street (2.8, to be exact) and the jump to deduce that at its origin was there wasn't particularly large when he considered the source. Crudely made by inexpert hands: the 'you are cordially invited' sticker was bent at the corner where it had been peeled away from the golden sheet, the world 'Funeral' pieced together by separate gold letters in a precise straight line. Straighter than a ruler. '_Sherlock_' was written in that usual manic way of his. A thumb print.

Probably on purpose, because if he had his equipment at Baker Street or the lab he'd be able to analyse the dust and, knowing Morarity, would be able to work out exactly where he was. And that was the point, really, to tease him. To say _not so clever now_. To say _look how close I am to your friends. _To stop him from just going home. No, apparently the game wasn't finished just yet.

The first thing to fade away was the schedule. He tried to hold onto it for as long as he could, but without John to regulate himself against time blurred according to his mood. Before John he'd never bothered, really, to try and keep up with the normal hours – nicotine and caffeine weren't as strong as his brain's relentless_ thinking_, but the two usually went hand in hand. He'd tried, for John, to at least be relatively quite during the night. Sometimes, of course, when they were in the middle of the case there was no way he could stop for something as mundane as _sleeping_. He tried.

The second invitation had been much the same as the last. Less of the cheep gold lettering, more of Moriarty's scrawl across the parchment: _Join DR. JOHN WATSON and MRS. HUDSON in VISITING YOUR GRAVE. _They both arrived sealed in plastic without a sender. The homeless network, Sherlock supposed – Jim Moriarty knew enough about him to pick up some of his tricks.

When he gave in again, it was to the cigarettes.

Sherlock had responded to the invites just as Moriarty had expected him too, turning up to watch the show being acutely aware that it actually called him a degree of physical pain. Objectively, the idea of attending his own funeral was relatively entertaining but, watching how, well, cruel human emotions were made his stomach clench slightly. _To care that much. _

Anything to slow down the crippling weight of boredom. Anything would do. Anything.

Mycroft was as unflappable as ever: the usual expression of mild distaste, the straight back stance, standing slightly away from the others. Attending mostly to keep up the appearance. Sherlock very much suspected that this was the last time he'd visit, not least because John was sure to be angry on his behalf. A degree of blame, perhaps. Worsened by the fact that Mycroft had the power to prove Moriarty existed at his fingertips, but would do nothing.

Lestrade, hands in his pockets and a serious expression. Hadn't been sleeping much. Suspension at work. Marital problems. Taken up smoking again.

_(Bags under the eyes, poorly ironed trousers, watch stopped, hand drifting subconsciously to his jacket pocket_).

Molly. Mrs Hudson. John.

He'd always liked knowing. The knowing made him comfortable, secure. He never thought he would like to distance himself and not see everything. He didn't want to see the slight tremor in John's left hand, nor anything else in that matter. Then when it came to John, he knew him so well that knowing almost came before the noticing. _Hasn't shaved, washed hair without shampoo, Mrs Hudson did the ironing, slept on someone's sofa, pretended to eat toast for breakfast, become uncomfortable wearing smart clothes, late night phone call (Harry?). _

_Head spinning; heart beating; veins pumping; adrenaline; lungs, in out in out; thinking; seeing; observing. _Pressure.

Sherlock didn't think he'd ever felt so human as he did upon hearing John declare him to be so.

If you were dying, if you were murdered, in the very last seconds, what would you say?

_(Goodbye, John) _

The metal of Jim Morarity's gun pressed into his chin.

Even now the beginning of the game almost felt like relief.

"Not done yet?" Sherlock asked, not moving and barely audible as he watched John retreat back, away from the gravestone. He pushed the muzzle further into his skin and Sherlock resisted the urge to roll his eyes.

"Tell me when I'm boring you." Jim said, his finger on the trigger, much to close. He could feel his breath on the back of his neck – the uncomfortable breathing of a mad man.

"Likewise," The cool metal pressed into the back of his neck now. Sherlock didn't turn around, "when do we start?"

"When you're ready, Sherlock." The gun was at an angle, poised for another round of the game; Jim Moriarty flirting with the trigger, maybe still deciding whether to pull it – enjoying the irony of Sherlock dying meters from his own grave, no doubt. He wouldn't pull it. Not yet.

"Another riddle."

"No," Jim Moriarty muttered, retracting the gun and pressing his lips against it for a split second, "another promise, _ordinary_ Sherlock."

"I'll be waiting." Sherlock returned.

"I'll be doing the waiting, this time," Jim Moriarty said, returning the gun to his pocket and raising a challenging eyebrow. He'd regained something of his composure since last time they'd been face to face, but the madness in the glint of his eyes was still there, "I'll give you a minute," he continued, nodding towards the gravestone, "to mourn for yourself."

Sherlock didn't move until Jim Moriarty turned, spitting on the floor by Sherlock's feet and disappearing back through the graveyard. It wasn't until he heard the slam of a car door, the engine start up and the noise disappear into the distance that he allowed himself a moment of weakness.

He stepped forward towards the grave. They'd always been jokes about his arrogance, his love of himself and for a second Sherlock entertained the idea of what they'd say if they saw him here, stood before the black stone of his own grave.

He reached out and touched it for a second, just as John had done (he missed being able to take queues from John sometimes), then he pulled his coat around him, turned up his collar and walked away.

_Caring is not an advantage. __Sentiment is a chemical defect found in the losing side._

_I was just playing the game._

And this is just loosing.

* * *

_Again, several lines that you probably recognise that aren't mine because they're from the show. Still enjoying this far more than I should. I think Lestrade gets to hold the floor in the next chapters. Maybe. Please review :)_


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